


companionable

by flowermasters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, bucky is such a fucking pisces, the thinnest veneer of a mission at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: “This is going to need stitches. You okay with that?”“I’m petrified of needles,” Bucky says, so seriously that Sam almost believes him.





	companionable

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually I will write something other than these two dummies taking care of each other, pining, and having sex.

They forgot the medkit in the motel room. Sam thinks of yelling about this, could curse a blue streak. They always, _ always _ keep it in the back of the car, and while this isn’t exactly a crisis, here lately it’s the little things that have the tendency to irritate him the most. Then he sees Bucky watching him from the other side of the car, still holding his handkerchief to his jaw with his eyebrows raised in expectant amusement, and Sam withholds the “goddamn it” forming in his mouth purely out of spite. 

“Keep pressure on that,” he says instead, to which Bucky gives a “you bet” and calmly gets in the car.

It’s not a long drive back to the motel, and sure enough, the medical kit is sitting right there on top of the wooden dresser where Sam, somewhat guiltily, remembers leaving it. He’d gotten a pretty severe paper cut the night before while flipping through the menu pamphlet for a Chinese place. He and Bucky ate house lo mein and sacked out in their respective beds; the little room still smells vaguely of soy sauce.

Once they’ve dropped their gear and turned the overhead light on, Sam ushers Bucky to sit at the foot of one of the double beds, and he does so, still looking quietly amused by something. “What you think?” he says, lowering the white handkerchief, which is now mostly scarlet. “My mother always said I’d ruin my good looks in a scrap.”

“You know, sometimes you really do talk like a character in a film noir,” Sam says, absentmindedly, his irritation mostly forgotten as he takes Bucky lightly by the chin and tilts his head to get a better look at the cut just above his jawbone. Not deep, but at least an inch and a half long and sickle-shaped, as well as bleeding substantially; Sam’s paper cut pales in comparison. There’s also a cut on Bucky’s cheekbone, but it’s small enough that the blood has already clotted. 

“Not Cagney, I hope,” Bucky says inanely, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Why I oughta.”

“Cut it out or I’ll start thinking you knocked a screw loose,” Sam says. “This is going to need stitches. You okay with that?”

“I’m petrified of needles,” Bucky says, so seriously that Sam almost believes him.

“Sure, make your jokes,” Sam says, standing up and grabbing the black bag full of medical supplies. “I’ve seen grown adults faint over a few drops of their own blood.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Bucky says, neutrally, and Sam does not allow his mind to follow this train of thought to its natural destination. He prefers not to dwell on what all Bucky’s seen unless Bucky brings up something specific, an occurrence less rare than it used to be. He steps into the bathroom to fetch two clean white hand-towels—or as clean as a motel towel can really be—then wets one and comes out to find Bucky peeling off his shirt.

This is good, as it allows Sam to inspect him for any other stray cuts, but also bad because Bucky being shirtless is generally distracting in a way that frustrates Sam, like an itch that keeps moving around. He’s abruptly aware of the mirror on the wall across from the bed, because even when he avoids looking at Bucky he accidentally looks at another Bucky. 

Bucky inspects the bloodstains around the collar of his gray henley, apparently unconcerned with the blood still running in a fat trickle down his neck, then tosses the shirt aside. “That’ll wash out,” he says. “I think.”

“If you’re a good boy I’ll take you to Target and buy you a whole twelve-pack of identical t-shirts, I know how you like those,” Sam says, and Bucky laughs.

Sam sits sideways on the bed next to Bucky, reaches into the bag, and pulls out a pair of gloves and a bottle of saline wound wash. He puts on the gloves, then holds up the dry towel to Bucky’s neck with one hand before carefully rinsing the cut, mopping up the pink-tinged liquid before it can get everywhere. Bucky goes quiet for this part, his gaze fixed calmly ahead, until Sam sprays a mild antiseptic on the wound.

“Ow.”

“Thought you was a tough guy,” Sam says, in a bad-on-purpose 1930s gangster accent, and Bucky snorts.

“No glass in the wound,” Sam says, daubing Lidocaine on the cut with some gauze. “Lucky you, or I’d have had to get my tweezers out.”

“Try not to sound so gleeful about it,” Bucky says dryly.

Sam digs in the bag for a suture kit, opens it, and takes all the protective plastic caps off the equipment. “This’ll sting worse,” he says. “Tilt your head for me and hold still.”

He takes Bucky by the chin again and gently guides his head into position, then rises up onto one knee, one foot on the floor, to get a better angle. Like this, he’s less cognizant of Bucky’s shirtlessness, so that’s good. Less aware of the vulnerability of his bared throat, the points of his collarbones, the blood all over his neck and shoulder. He was in the air when Bucky got cut up—a window shattered, he said, when their target, an arms dealer, unexpectedly started firing—but he heard it over the comm, Bucky’s quiet, almost distracted mutter of _ shit_. Later, when Sam had asked about the bloody handkerchief, he said, calm as you please, _ least it wasn’t a bullet. _As if Sam needed to hear that out loud to be aware that yes, at least it wasn't a bullet.

Bucky’s not one for dramatics, at least not about injuries, but even he can’t help a quick inhalation, a sudden squint, when Sam starts. Sam surprises himself by mumbling, “Sorry, sorry.”

“Doesn’t hurt too badly,” Bucky slurs, trying to talk without moving his mouth much, “but it sure as hell isn’t pleasant.”

“Hush,” Sam says, needing Bucky still. It’s quiet work, and the focus required is oddly soothing. He does his best to pretend like Bucky isn’t watching him, head tilted, out of the corner of his eye. Tries to ignore the heat of his body, the arm that’s nearly brushing Sam’s stomach. Almost succeeds at it.

Sam finishes, ties off the last suture, then clips the excess thread. He gets a butterfly bandage out of the kit and sticks it to the cut on Bucky’s cheekbone. Then he takes the wet towel and carefully dabs around the cuts, wiping off dried blood. Bucky allows this, even allows Sam to wipe off some blood that managed to get near his mouth. His breathing, slow and even, tickles Sam’s fingers. His eyes are blue and watchful in the dingy yellow light from the dome light fixture above them.

“You’re good at that,” Bucky says quietly, tilting his head back to a normal position as Sam gently wipes down his neck. “At this.”

Sam doesn’t ask what _ that _ or _this _ refers to, specifically. “I should hope so,” he says. “Can’t cut it in pararescue if you can’t handle basic field medicine.”

“I never could do anything like that,” Bucky says, still watching Sam as Sam swipes the damp towel, too carefully, over rusty stains near his collarbone. “Got butterfingers.”

“Yeah, right, sharpshooter,” Sam says, and Bucky smiles, then winces slightly as the movement no doubt tugs on the wound. “You’ll have to be careful with that. Shaving’s going to be a bitch. And you’ll probably have a nice scar when those come out.”

“It won’t stick,” Bucky says. “Most things don’t, to me.”

“Super serum’s gotta be good for something,” Sam says, sitting back on his haunches and moving the towel away.

Bucky catches gently at his wrist. “Now you,” he says, looking at Sam with a kind of expectancy. 

“I’m not hurt,” Sam says, confused, but recognizing something in Bucky’s expression on a primal level. “Besides, unlike you, I know how to duck.”

Bucky smiles, more out of fondness than amusement, like he knows what Sam is trying to do and finds it charming. “You look tired,” he says, holding on to Sam’s wrist until Sam lowers his hand and drops the towel on the bedspread beside them. “You been sleeping alright?”

Sam swallows, tries to busy himself by taking off his gloves. The question’s innocuous, but it—and Bucky’s steady, warm gaze—comes attached to sense memory. That look is Bucky’s hand in his jeans, hot breath on his neck, mumbling, _ you’ll sleep better if you come_.

That’s how it works between them—closeness out of necessity, always. Blowing off steam. Sam’s been there, most folks who serve have at some point or another, Bucky probably among them. Jerk each other off a few times, a blowjob here and there, no harm, no foul.

Of course, he never did that with Riley, or with Steve, and Bucky—despite everything—is his partner now, just like they were. He’s never been sure if it was just different with those two, so that this sort of thing wasn’t on the table, or if he just has more steam he needs to blow off now.

“Didn’t get my coffee this morning,” Sam says, trying to joke, and then: “I don’t know, man. Just a little worn out, I guess.”

“Maybe we should take a breather for a few days,” Bucky says, and that _ we _comes out so smoothly that Sam almost doesn’t notice it. “Couple weeks, even. We’re allowed to do that, you know.”

“I don’t know what I’d even do,” Sam admits, suddenly and compulsively honest. He doesn’t even have an apartment to call his own, has been on the road, bouncing from mission to mission with Bucky tagging along, for six months now. Six months since they came back from the goddamn dead. “What we’d even do.”

“I can think of a few things,” Bucky says, looking unmistakably at Sam’s mouth.

“Barnes,” Sam says, almost a warning, although he’s not entirely sure what he’s warning him against. Some deep-seated part of him sounds the alarm, calling out, _ don’t, don’t do something we can’t undo, don’t make me feel something I can’t unfeel._ It’s just so much easier to pretend to only tolerate Bucky, to pretend that he’s still only _ tagging along_.

“C’mon, Sam,” Bucky says, with a sort of grimace, but not an angry one. He looks kind of pained, really. “It’ll be alright.”

Now Sam feels put on the spot, so he kisses Bucky just to prove that he can, because he's not one to be cowed. He’s not sure if they’ve ever kissed on the mouth before, can’t remember it through the blur of hands on dicks and tongues on the shells of ears. If they have, it wasn’t like this, purposeful and intense. Slow.

It’s very quiet in the room, even with the ubiquitous hotel air conditioner running; Sam is cognizant of the sound of their breathing, the sticky little noises their kissing makes. He reaches up, as he already has more than once today, to touch Bucky’s jaw—the good side, not the one with the dark, sutured cut. When they part Sam has the weirdest urge to kiss it, or at least the skin around it, faintly discolored as it is with bruising, but as far as symbolic gestures go, that one wouldn’t be very pleasant for either of them.

“You sure about this?” Sam says.

“Hell,” Bucky says. “That’s my line.”

“Shut _ up_,” Sam says, annoyed, only not really. He’s trying not to smile. Christ.

“Okay,” Bucky says, heavy blue eyes on Sam’s mouth again. “Could suck you off, but I don’t know if that’s wise.”

Sam swallows, thinks of running a thumb over Bucky’s lower lip. It’s a little swollen, although Sam doesn’t think Bucky ever got close enough to the target to take a hit. “That’s okay,” he says, although really, he could be persuaded to let Bucky try. “Just touch me.”

“Lie back,” Bucky says, and Sam does, is strangely grateful to, weird case of nerves forgotten or maybe defeated. He crawls up towards the head of the bed, Bucky following, and lies on his back, barely remembering to toe off his boots and kick them off the bed. He _ is _ tired, and lying down feels good; this feels like an extension of the brief little trance he fell into while stitching Bucky up. He lets Bucky peel his shirt off of him, then his pants, leaving him in boxer-briefs; it’s somehow more intimate than total nudity for the easy, practiced way Bucky slides his hand under the waistband.

Bucky doesn’t do anything but kiss him some more, leisurely, and stroke him slowly but assuredly. Sometimes when they do this kind of thing, Bucky gets talkative—_yeah, you gonna come, Wilson? Sure you fucking are, do it_—but they’ve never done it like this before. This time Bucky just makes a sympathetic little noise under his breath as Sam grunts and comes in his hand.

He’s nibbling lightly on Sam’s earlobe when Sam recovers the brainpower to remember that he should return the favor. It’s part of the deal, but it’s not transactional; he’s never been able to lie to himself _ that _ well, never been able to pretend he doesn’t like this. He pushes Bucky onto his back, skims down his chest with his mouth, muttering, “I swear if you wiped cum on the comforter, this is _my_ bed—”

Bucky laughs, the muscles in his stomach quivering, but has gone quiet and watchful, almost comically serious, by the time Sam puts his mouth on his dick. Sam doesn’t try to drag it out; he’d like this to last, likes this a lot, but post-orgasm drowsiness is a powerful thing. He remembers to look up when Bucky’s about to come—doesn’t take a genius to have figured out that Bucky likes eye contact, something Sam’s been hesitant to allow until this juncture.

Sam wipes his mouth afterwards, tucks Bucky’s dick back into his pants for him, aware that Bucky is watching him and not minding for once. He crawls back up the bed and flops on his back next to Bucky; the only point of contact between them is where their shoulders brush, but Sam wouldn’t mind, he thinks, if Bucky moved closer. 

“How’s your face?” he asks after a few moments, thinking of getting up to get some water but ultimately deciding against it.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Bucky says, turning his head to look at the side of Sam’s face. “Maybe I was putting on a little. For you.” 

Sam huffs, amused, both exasperated and quietly pleased with the idea. “Too bad you won’t have a scar,” he says. “Give you some edge.”

“Sure,” Bucky says dryly, “the metal arm doesn’t do enough of that.”

Quiet falls again, save for the _ whoosh _ of the A/C unit that’s become the background noise to all of Sam’s quiet moments lately, and then Bucky says, “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“If you do decide you want to take a break from all of this,” Bucky says, tone carefully neutral, “you want me to take it with you?”

Sam looks over at Bucky, meets his eyes, and lightly nudges Bucky’s bare shoulder, the junction of warm flesh and room-temp metal, with his own. 

“Hell,” he says. “There’s no getting rid of you now, Barnes.”


End file.
